


Scared

by deanau



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vietnam, World War I, World War II, i live for spine and rabbit's bromance gosh diddly, robros, well mentions at least it's nothing too blatant or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanau/pseuds/deanau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Spine had always been scared of his older brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scared

The Spine had always been scared of his older brother.

It had started as something innocent - the fear of a child, of whispered scary stories under the glow of dim photoreceptors. Rabbit would scoot towards him, jaw creaking as he grinned maniacally. He'd told him of ghosts and werewolves and vampires - and he'd soaked it up, eyes widening in awe and fear.

With his older brother there, the fear had been manageable; concealable, even. Of _course_ he was grown up enough to learn about succubi and incubi and witches! He was scared of Rabbit, yet he felt safe in his presence - it was when he was alone that the terror overcame him, leaving him struggling to power down. His Pappy had found him that way, once: curled up in a darkened corner, skeletal arms clutching skeletal legs, whimpering and shaking with eyes firmly squeezed shut. When pushed to tell him what was wrong, The Spine had let out a small cry - his Pappy, his brave, strong, intelligent Pappy wouldn't be proud of him if he knew what it was that had terrified him so. He'd never told him that it was Rabbit's stories that scared him.

The fear had changed, over time: passed through the stage of silly stories - and they _were_ silly, The Spine had so strongly insisted - it had mutated into something more. This had begun with Rabbit's personality. Rather more mischevious than his little brother, he'd taken to playing practical jokes on him. The Spine's fear twisted into something physical; he had no heart, yet he could have sworn that he could feel its beat pulsing and pulsing, anxiety coursing through his veins, no, his wires, when he knew Rabbit could be about to strike-

He'd jump, but never scream. Though his Father had never been cruel, was never cruel, he'd believed that he had something to prove. Rabbit was the oldest; as such, their Father would love him best. The Spine, however, had to go out of his way to make him proud. Where Rabbit was able to niggle and tease, his younger brother was able to remain calm and focused; was always obedient, and polite. He had learnt to control his reactions. No, he would never scream.

The fear; nay, the sheer terror he'd felt during the wars - the weekend war, the world wars - was when it next evolved. No longer did he fear Rabbit in the way a sibling should; no, now, it was worse. He'd heard stories, during the first of the world wars. Why did it always start with stories? Tales of robots taken over by the enemy, used against those who trusted them... or, who they had been. His comrades had looked upon all of them with distrust, for a while, as these rumours had spread. But The Spine was only truly scared of one of his brothers. His oldest. The Jon, he knew, he could stop. He was gold-plated, and wiry; The Spine was titanium alloy. He'd been built well. Oh no, The Jon was not who he feared. It was Rabbit. Physically, he was lacking - copper was weak where titanium was strong. But Rabbit was wily and cunning. The Spine was not. It plagued his thoughts, even as he sat amongst the walking dead, rain hitting his helmet rhythmically. Mud was smeared across his boots, and he stared at it; idly digging his toes into the base of trench, watching as the water crept up and up, soaking his shoes and his socks. Having finished their morning duties, most of the other soliders had fallen into a restless sleep. He, too, was permitted to do so - he could see men lined against the sides of the trench, alert and keeping watch.

Pulling his feet out of the water, he reached for his rifle. He scraped at the mud with the bayonet, watching as chunks of mud fell back into the flood. Most sunk to the bottom, obscured. He kept busy - pulling his haversack closer, watching the men to make sure none shut their eyes, even for a second. He toyed with the idea of writing in his journal. He'd seen the others do it, and replies to his letters were so sparse that he'd begun to savour them, and only wrote when feeling particularly impassioned. Sighing, he slid the small notebook back into his sack. He was allowed to sleep, yes - but, scared as he was of Rabbit, he was scared of himself, too.

When they returned from the war, he burnt his diary. The room was dark, lit only by the slanting light of the fire from behind the grate. Flickers lit the inhuman planes of his face. He was scared that Rabbit would find it.

In 1950, the fear grew a new layer. This was less fear of Rabbit... and more fear for him. Seeing his older brother, he who had both harmed and nurtured him, cold and unseeing on a labatory table, was terrifying. Rabbit has always been by his side, taunting and teasing; but a constant, something unchangeable and solid. He was scared of his brother, yes - but not so scared as he was of losing him.

Vietnam only carved this fright deeper into him. His protective streak became less a part of him, and more his whole self; he could not look at any of his brothers without panic in his eyes. When they came home, eight long years after their departure, turned on for the first time after being rebuilt, his first action was to seek for Rabbit. Photoreceptors dancing nervously across the room, he'd been unable to see him. He'd been scared when he'd been informed that he was the first to be reawakened. He just wanted his big brother. But the Robot Grandmaster would have been displeased by this show of weakness, so he'd smiled, said he was glad to be home.

When Rabbit had come to him, confessing in hushed tones that he didn't feel right, he'd been scared. When he'd said that he was, in fact, a she, The Spine was not. It had felt strange. Though he'd comforted him - her - many times in the past, this was different. Rabbit was scared. This meant that The Spine couldn't be. So he'd held her, rubbing her chassis soothingly. He said he'd understood, that he didn't always feel normal - just not in quite the same way. He'd let his sister talk to him, moving to hold her hand as it shook erratically. She'd smiled, and thanked him. The change was, in itself, not something to be fearful of. But as she'd left, he'd been scared. What if Rabbit wasn't the same as he'd been for almost a century? Would he lose his brother?

It was the day he'd found her, shaking uncontrollably, that he'd not been scared at all. She'd been glitching too much to form coherent words, let alone sentences. He'd sat by her, sharing the darkened corner he'd used as a refuge so long ago. She'd cried, and oil had dripped from his photoreceptors, slowly trickling down his faceplates. But he'd felt nothing. He was numb - numb to her suffering, to his. He'd lost his other siblings, his family. They were the last two left.

Then it was just him. Just him, alone.


End file.
